


Just for a Night

by orphan_account



Category: Paul Williams - Fandom
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Sex, Fellatio, Height Gap, M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-20 09:22:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9484766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Paul and Berlioz share an evening together, which leads to some very unexpected things.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [angelwing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelwing/gifts).



> im gonna post this here i dont care anymore

Berlioz Breton wasn't one to be kept waiting. From the earliest days of his childhood, he'd been accustomed to people being there at his immediate request. As he grew up, he never grasped the concept of patience, which proved to be extremely difficult during his adult years. He at least wished he had something to pass the time, maybe a cup of coffee to drink or a gram of pot to smoke. Anything would be better, really, than staring out a window and looking at tasteless decor. The parlor smelled of dust and cheap sandalwood candles, he couldn't help but judge every aspect of the old man's home, from the threadbare sisal carpet to the faded burgundy of the couch and right down to the artificial ficus plant in the far corner. It always bothered him how most people weren't even dedicated enough to take care of real plants, and he took pride in the fact that he was one of the few that were. 

Outside, he could see it was late evening. The sun hid itself behind the hill in the distance, creating the illusion of the sky being cloaked by a dark halo. There was a certain lack of clouds, and the remaining light of day shined harshly through the window, making Berlioz have to cover the side of his face with his palm to keep him from straining his eyesight. He wondered when the old man would arrive. Turning his head, he squinted at the clock located at the other side of the room. It was just a bit pass half past six, which means he'd been here for more than an hour now. Sighing, he folded his arms and leaned back, hoping he'll come in soon.

The last rays of sunlight finally succeeded. The only light in the room came from the antique ceiling fan, with several of its bulbs burned out. He turned to look at the clock again, but unfortunately the dimness made it impossible to determine what time it was. How long would he have to wait? Kicking down on the couch, he thought up a list of passive-aggressive remarks he'll say to him when he arrived, subtly letting him know how much time he made him waste. He knew the old man was too meek to get angry with him. Still, Berlioz thought it was petty of him to pick on someone so weak, it's not like that poor thing would ever be up to his level.

The crack of a door opening made him unconsciously jump from his comfortable position to a more presentable posture. Realizing he shouldn't even bother to look professional, he let his legs casually spread out on the carpet before he would notice. Berlioz glanced at the opposite end of the parlor with a feeling of slight content. Paul greeted him as he locked the door behind him, although Berlioz didn't seem to return the welcome. But Paul didn't mind, and smiled as he walked towards the younger man, closing the curtains on the window before taking a seat near him on the couch. 

"So," Paul spoke, giving him a slight smile. "How's everything been going for you lately?"

Berlioz hesitated to reply. "I almost got lost driving here, that address you wrote me; your handwriting's borderline indecipherable... As for how's it been, same as always. I don't care about it, really, life is meaningless."

Paul raised an eyebrow at that, lips pressed together to avoid letting out a laugh. Berlioz caught note of this and frowned in annoyance.

"It's not like you would care. Your entire life has practically been already wasted anyway." Berlioz shot back.

Paul snickered, giving him a friendly pat on the shoulder. "I just found that little comment of yours funny. No need to get so defensive. Sorry if I didn't write the directions clearly enough, by the way."

"I wasn't joking, a life of nihilism doesn't allow for humor."

"Anyway, how's that composition coming along?"

"It's coming along very well. But like all great works, it takes its time."

"That's good to hear," Paul said as he got up from the couch. "Would you mind coming to the living room? There isn't anything much in here."

With hesitantion, Berlioz stood up and followed him down the hall. Several framed photographs hung sturdily on the wall, some of them dating back to god knows when. He barely had time to look through them as he walked, yet he'd noticed an unfamiliar looking man recurrently appear in the older black and white pictures. He'd wondered who that was, but he didn't care that much to ask Paul who that was. 

The living room looked comparatively more inviting to Berlioz, though nevertheless he still managed to focus on the flaws of the living space. There was still that awful scent of dust and sandalwood persistent throughout, not to mention the decor was even blander-looking than that of the room he'd been in. The color scheme was hideous, there seemed to be the same shade of beige everywhere, save for the chipping white paint of the walls. But the saddest thing about it was the pot of fabricated ferns placed carelessly on top of the table. He took a seat near the piano while Paul was busy lowering the curtains down.

"Why do you even bother to cover your windows?" Berlioz asked. "It's not like you're some A-list Hollywood celebrity with the paparazzi after your ass."

Paul pretended he didn't hear that last part. "I lower them so I can feel like I'm an A-List celebrity." He jokingly replied, trying to change the cheerless mood Berlioz was to give off.

Berlioz rolled his eyes at that, focusing on the polished ebony piano next to him now. In relation to the rest of the room, it appeared to be the only decent thing within it. Despite how short its height was in contrast to what he was used to, he wanted to ask Paul if he could play it, wanting to demonstrate to him how skillful he really was.

"Mind if I could play this thing?" He inquired, gesturing at it with his index finger.

"Of course. I have more sheet music in closet down the hallway the if you want any, just ask."

"No thanks, I fortunately have a good memory in remembering what I've played before, unlike you."

"Okay." Paul murmured, more upset at the way Berlioz was speaking him than he was angry. "I'll be back in a few, I'm gonna brew us some coffee."

"It better be a dark roast blend."

Paul wished the young man would cease his temper, something that seemed quite impossible. Even if he treated Berlioz with the upmost respect and admiration, he never returned his gratitude. Such a rebellious generation (well if he actually thought about it, back in his day they weren't any more different).

Berlioz sat down on the narrow leather bench, which was far too small and uncomfortable for his height but he did his best to fit on it. Straightening his back, he placed his fingers on the center of the keyboard, making sure that his right thumb was on the C note and took a deep, harsh breath. Why the hell was he nervous all of a sudden? He'd practically played the piano since he was born, it was outrageously ironic that he started feeling hung up about it now, at age thirty-three. Was it because he was here? Nonsense, Berlioz thought to himself. Why should he be worried about what some old man, an old man whose entire 40-year-long music career went completely unrecognized, thought about him? Paul should be grateful that he would even bother to visit him, to have to put up with his cringeworthy actions. He forced himself to begin playing the piano, fingers hitting the keys with rough thumps, a loud twisted version of Mozart's Sonata No. 12 vibrating through the living room, trying to fight off the deep tension within him.

He kept on until he couldn't handle it anymore, a sharp pain straining his knuckles as he reluctantly got up, kicking the bench in frustration. Berlioz let his body fall back on the couch and closed his eyes, trying to drown all his thoughts out. Paul came back from the kitchen, taking a bit longer than expected because of the ruckus. He placed Berlioz's cup on the table in front of him, and watched him from the seat on the opposite side, a look of exhaustion present on his face. Paul wasn't physically tired in the slightest, though. He was wearied by Berlioz, whom he assumed was fuming for no apparent reason at all. Thinking of a way to reconcile him, he realized he didn't even know what was bothering him in the first place. Afraid that if he asked Berlioz what was going on would just make the situation worse, he simply decided to wait, leaning against the armrest on the sofa chair and taking a sip of his coffee.

A noise was heard across the room, near the tripod floor lamp. Paul got up as quickly as he could, fearing the lamp's legs had loosened and the whole thing was about to fall to the ground. Fortunately, that wasn't the case, and it turned out the noise was just from his cat stepping on the hardwood floor. He hummed, trying to get her attention, and she turned to look at him with her little yellow-green eyes. With her tiny white paws she scurried towards him and started clawing at his knee. Picking her up he went back to the sofa, sitting down and placing her cozily on his lap. He stroked her soft furry body affectionately, earning him a low purr when he petted her between the ears. Berlioz finally looked up, noticing the calico ragdoll sprawled over the old man. While cats weren't his favorite animals, he'd always been drawn to them, to their aloof mannerisms and generally lazy natures. As he watched the two play with each other, the cat fondling Paul's chest, he couldn't help but find the sight before him to be... cute? 

The ragdoll turned her head abruptly, observing Berlioz. She didn't move as she stared at him, a stranger in her eyes. Slowly, she slid to the floor, her tail unhooking from Paul's limb. Walking around the table separating them, she went towards Berlioz, circling his feet from where he sat and licked at the tip of his leather ankle boots. Paul saw this and, thinking Berlioz would be disgusted, was surprised that the younger man wasn't annoyed at all. In fact, he actually moved his hand down to pet her behind her whiskers, gently running his thumb on her cheeks. Gaining her trust, he carefully picked her up, laying her upper body on his left thigh. The cat closed her eyes as he continued petting her, purring appreciably.

"That's surprising," Paul said from the other side of the table. "She never gets that comfortable around strangers."

"Well lucky me then. What's her name, by the way?"

"Princess, I didn't bother to change her name when I adopted her. I have another cat too, a shorthair. She must be somewhere upstairs."

"I'll like to see her too. If you don't mind that is."

"Not at all. Please, come with me." Paul replied as he got up from the sofa. Berlioz did the same, putting Princess aside before standing, but she decided to hop down and follow the two. Along the way, they passed the same hall he'd been in. Berlioz caught a glimpse of the photos on the walls again, still perplexed about the unfamiliar man, whom he now noticed was fair-haired and wearing dark glasses on his slightly pudgy face.

Reaching the staircase, he felt worried about Princess, whose little paws might trip on the steps. He ran his fingers on her back and picked her up protectively before making their way overhead. Reaching the upper story, he let her go and followed Paul to his room. As he turned on the lights, he saw that his bedroom was as bland as the rest of the house. No color coordination whatsoever. The mahogany furniture looked so shabby that he could see a few scratches on the wood even from afar. Deciding he didn't want to waste anymore of his precious time criticizing what he already knew looked awful, he went to rest his stair-strained feet on the hatched camelback sofa, waiting for Paul to find his shorthair. After a while, the old man came back from searching, unsuccessful. "I'm sure she's around here somewhere, but I just can't find her at the moment. I'm sorry."

"It's okay." Berlioz halfheartedly responded, knowing he'll be bored for a while now.

"Hey, I have a record player on that desk over there," He said, pointing to the part of the room that Berlioz hadn't noticed. "I could play us some old tunes. You've got anything in mind? A have quite a lot of albums."

"Not really. Surprise me."

Opening the drawer below the desk, he sorted through them and thought about which one he was going to pick. Finding a good one, he grinned as he pulled it out. As he flipped it over on the desk, Berlioz caught sight of the image on the cover. It was that same man he'd seen in those old photographs.

"Who's that?" Berlioz took the opportunity to ask, pointing to the album.

"Oh, you don't know?" Paul pretended to sound surprised as he slipped the record out, placing it on the platter.

"Not really."

"That's me." Paul smirked. "You think my hair was always a chopped up mess?"

"Maybe I did. I can't believe I've never seen a older picture of you until now."

"Are you implying I'm famous enough that everyone should know what I've looked like?"

"Of course not, quit being ridiculous."

"Relax, I was joking. But really, haven't you've ever looked my name up? My younger self's face is literally on the first results page."

"I wouldn't waste my time on the Internet, especially not for you. The invention of the computer has dumbened this pathetic generation."

"Have you've forgotten you're part of this generation?"

Berlioz didn't respond to that, fearing anything he tried to shoot back would just leave him even more embarrassed. Paul adjusted the tonearm, cautiously lowering the needle in place. 

The sound that followed was, well, a little too cheery. Particularly for Berlioz, who wanted to just cover his ears and smash the record player in pieces. But as he listened closely, beneath the upbeat singing and the out of place instruments (Were those kazoos he was hearing?), that the lyrics and general composition weren't even that bad. As the next song came on, it fortunately had a slower tempo. The singing was moodier to the point that it sounded... seductive? He tried to brush it off, focusing on the song itself. Still, that alluring drawl made him kind of weak in the knees. Continuing to listen to the album, he overlooked the cheery parts and appreciated it as a whole. Despite how beautiful they were, how beautiful his voice was (and arguably still was), he couldn't help but cringe a bit at any vaguely sexual line. He found it hard to imagine such an ugly little man engaging in the act of lovemaking. 

When the last song ended, Paul lifted the tonearm and turned the player off. He gave Berlioz a smile as he went to remove the vinyl record, slipping it back in its cover. 

"So... what did you think?" He asked in a somewhat bemused tone.

The younger man shrugged. "It was alright. You're more talented than I've expected. Only slightly more though, don't get your hopes up."

"Well, I'm honored." Paul said, opening the drawer beneath the desk. But in the process of sorting through the records to put the one he was holding back in its original place, the record itself fell to the floor. Luckily, it didn't shatter. Berlioz shifted his head up at the crash and, seeing the old man leaning down to pick it back up, went to help him. Berlioz later regretted his gesture, for when he got to that part of the room, he accidentally tripped on the player's cable, bumping into the old man and sending him too to the floor.

"Oh... god! I'm so sorry... I was just trying to help..." 

"It's alright," Paul replied, taking the hand Berlioz extended for him to get up. "I'm fine. This small body has withstood a few blows over the years, believe it or not."

Once he got up to his feet, he looked at Berlioz under his round tinted glasses, which darkened with the low lighting illuminating his bedroom. Paul's hand left the grip of his, and began traveling steadily up his arm. Resting it on his shoulder, he pushed down, bringing the taller man to his eye level. 

"W- What are yo-"

Berlioz couldn't finish his sentence as his lips locked with Paul's. He trembled, too deep in shock to do anything, feeling the older man's fingers tangle in his curly dark brown hair. As Paul broke the kiss between them, he stood with his face dangerously close to him, and Berlioz could now clearly see that his eyes were half-lidded.

"You handsome young man, you weren't just looking to spend some average afternoon here, were you?" Paul murmured, running his hand to stroke Berlioz's cheek

Berlioz stood silent, as if all the unhindered feelings he had for him flowed out.

Paul's lips curled in a slight smile. "I thought so. I've noticed all those leers you given me when I'm not looking, all those faces you made when listening to the sound of my voice, all those times you've tried to impress me. You aren't as subtle as I've thought. Don't feel so sorry. The feelings are... very mutual. Came to me so suddenly, but still incredibly mutual... Why'd you think I invited you on a night my wife would be outta town?"

Berlioz swallowed hard, trying to both process all of this and calm his heightening libido down. It didn't help that Paul's face was an inch away from his, his hot breath hitting his neck. 

Paul yanked Berlioz's arm forward, bringing them to the end of the bed behind him. Paul let himself fall back on the fleecy cotton bedsheets, grabbing Berlioz's wrists and pinning them next to both of his sides. Tugging down on the back of the younger man's neck, he opened his mouth again and kissed him passionately. Berlioz shivered as the old man's tongue circled his, getting a moan from him as he teased the cold steel piercing at the middle. Paul drew back for air before beginning to nibble at his neck, making sure to suck hard enough to leave hickeys at his throat. Berlioz was struggling to breathe at this point, whimpering at the surprising roughness. 

Paul drew back again. "Make love to me, I beg you. Just for tonight. Promise me you'll forget about this in the morning. Please... you don't understand how badly I've wanted you."

Berlioz shuddered at his begging, laying still. But nothing mattered anymore, and he began kissing the man beneath him with an ever-growing passion, completely swept away by the heat of the moment. Paul's tongue felt so good against his, and he curled them together until it could almost choke him. Berlioz leaned down, mouthing the soft, aged skin on his neck, feeling the stubble poke at his lip. Paul's hands found their way to Berlioz's hips, and he slipped them under his tight turtleneck. The younger man quivered at the sensation of his wrinkled hands, moving up his stomach and settling on his chest. Paul pulled at the bottom of his turtleneck, trying to take it off. Berlioz helped him, lifting the shirt over shoulders and tossing it to the floor. Paul took in the sight of him shirtless, starting to run his fingers all over his chest. His thumb traced on one of his nipples, which were also pierced as his tongue was. He had an urge to tug on them but he didn't know whether Berlioz would find that painful or not. The man on top noticed his fingers lingering there, not sure what to do. He looked down at him, nodding to show he was okay with it. With his thumb and forefinger, Paul pinched the ball of metal that poked out of Berlioz's left nipple. Carefully, he started to gently pluck at it. As Berlioz let out a groan, Paul moved his head forward, mouth latching upon the other piercing. Placing it firmly between his teeth, he began to do the same, playfully teasing the sensitive patch of skin, making Berlioz curse under his harshening breath.

Paul rested his head back down on the bed and took both of Berlioz's hands, placing them on his own chest, leading them up to the collar of his crinkled shirt. Berlioz began to unloose the buttons, unfastening the last one before opening his shirt to reveal his chest. Berlioz was practically gagging as he made himself lower his lips to the creased flesh, placing a trail of kisses through his collarbone and nipples to his navel. Paul made him stop there, his hands now going to undo Berlioz's belt. His member twitched and stiffened as the old man rubbed at the bulge showing through his leather trousers, his throbbing cock popping out when he lowered the tight piece of clothing from his waist. Paul's tiny hands stroked up and down his length, thumb pressing at the tip and scratching the sensitive undersides of his balls. Moaning, Berlioz layed next to him on the bed, legs trembling at the smooth sensations. Paul changed his position too, now getting at an angle where his legs where perpendicular to Berlioz's, his face right in front of his erection. He placed his upper lip at the shaft, running it down to his balls and up again, hot breath against the ripening skin. Opening his mouth, he gently sucked, massaging the tip with his finger before putting his lips up there, slowly taking it in.

Berlioz was a mess, his dark hair clinging to the sweat on his temples, carding through Paul's hair as the old man blew him dry. Pulling out, Paul wiped away the semen that was dripping down his chin with the woolen blanket. His glasses were lopsided, about to fall down his nose before Berlioz grabbed them through shaking hands and placed them on the nightstand. Paul squinted his eyes at him, undoing his own trousers, kicking them aside to the floor. Berlioz looked incredibly disgusted at the sight of Paul's limp member, yet at the same time incredibly aroused. He caressed his thighs, moving his palms up to feel the collection of wrinkles that appeared to be his shaft. He stroked this area for several minutes, wanting to stimulate his cock throughly, knowing how long it took for older men to get off. After a while, he managed to bring himself to use his tongue, licking and delicately nibbling the flaccid little thing. Despite how good it felt to him, Paul was frustrated that he couldn't get an erection at this age. Berlioz continued mouthing, tongue moving down to his pulsating anus. Paul whimpered, burying his face on a pillow and flipping his body over so he could better feel Berlioz's tongue swirling in there. Letting his saliva drip, Berlioz nudged at his rear, making his tongue go in deeper.

When he finished, Paul turned his face away from the pillow he was moaning into. "T- The lubricant's r- right there somewhere in the nightstand..."

Berlioz briefly got off the bed, fumbling with the drawer's contents before finding a tube that appeared to be it, labeled as "Lavender-scented".

"Y- Yeah... that's the one..." Paul mumbled, his mouth covered by the pillowcase. 

Getting back on the bed, Berlioz kneeled between Paul's legs, squirting out the lube and feeling the consistency of it between his fingers before rubbing it all over his cock. It didn't even smell of lavender, having a scent more like that of an hyacinth plant, but Berlioz wasn't focusing on that at the moment. He squeezed some more, nearly wasting the entire tube lubing up the anus of the quivering old man under him. It never seemed to be enough though. For a second, he was legitimately afraid he would kill the old man if he went in too dry. He stuck his middle finger into Paul's crease and seeing that he was fine, added another, his back beginning to arch. Upon his welp of pain, Berlioz pushed both fingers back, but Paul gripped his wrists before they could exit. "I- I- I'm alright, don't worry. Just... fuck me already." He whined, too horny to realize his slip of vulgarity.

Making sure his cock was still lubed well, he held Paul by the waist. He brushed the tip of his cock against the entrance, causing the old man to twitch and groan. Berlioz steadily moved his hips, putting it in little by little. Paul gripped the bedsheets, trying to regain his composure. Lowering his torso, Berlioz nuzzled his cheek on Paul's head in an attempt to comfort him, trying so desperately to imagine the long-haired blond he saw in that photograph. When he was more than halfway in him, Paul bit the pillowcase to avoid screaming our loud. Berlioz considered pulling out thereupon, concerned that he'll injure him, but Paul moved his hips along, wanting him even deeper. As Berlioz reached down to get him off, he realized his cock was a bit stiffer than before, already leaking with (a small amount of) semen. His own orgasm soon followed, and he pulled out, still wrapped snugly around the old man as they collapsed next to each other. Berlioz retrieved the blankets from the edge of the bed, covering Paul's squirming little body up before putting his arms around him, his chin resting at the top of his head.

"I woulda topped," Paul chuckled through the bedsheets. "I woulda topped if I was still flexible enough, I'll tell you."

Berlioz forced a laugh at that, kissing his forehead affectionately. Snickering, Paul grabbed the back of his neck, pulling him into a deeper kiss, Berlioz's long eyelashes fluttering against his. Their tender moment was cut short by the door creaking open. The other cat finally showed up, and was now trying to get into bed with them, clawing at the mattress with her front paws. Breaking their embrace, Paul picked her up and let her rest on his naked chest, the cat's tongue licking his nipples. Berlioz couldn't help but find the intimacy Paul and his cat shared disturbing. "Put her back on the floor." 

"Don't get so jealous, now." Paul bickered, petting the shorthair. "She and I had our fair share of passionate nights."


End file.
